


Bundle Of Joy?

by cumberbabeswillrise



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Parent!lock, Parentlock, adoption!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbabeswillrise/pseuds/cumberbabeswillrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally convinces Sherlock to foster children with him. The little girl they eventually adopt comes with more surprises than one. Johnlock fluff. Parentlock. eventual character death. im not sure what else but i'm sure I'll put some other stuff in this later. It's slow at first, but i have plans for it to get better and faster(;</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carlisle

It was after their second year of marriage that John finally admitted that he longed for children. Sherlock, of course, was less than compliant, but after some convincing he finally understood where John was coming from.

“We don't have to adopt, Sherlock, just foster for a while. If you don't like it, then we don't have to talk about it ever again,” John's big doe eyes pleaded with him. It pained Sherlock to even think of saying no to his partner, so he reluctantly agreed.

“I still don't understand why I have to be there,” Sherlock growled as they climbed into a cab to head to the foster agency.

“Because somehow you qualified to be a foster parent and you have to sign some things.” John turned toward him, “I understand these kids, Sherlock. I know where they come from and I understand the pain they're going through. I want them to have good experiences with foster care, unlike me. They deserve to have someone care about them.”

Sherlock felt bad for being so cynical about it as he saw the pain of memory in John's eyes. He still didn't know too much of John's time in foster care. He could deduce that he'd been abused and that's why he'd been shoved into foster care, but he didn't know exactly what had happened after. He was afraid to ask.

“I suppose you're right. We're just starting out with one, right?”

John laughed lightly at the concerned look on Sherlock's face, “Yes. The social worker said she's a five year old girl named Carlisle. She's quiet, never cries, very smart.”

Sherlock scoffed, “We'll see about that.”

“She's got quite a past, Sherlock. Traumatizing, from what the social worker told me. Be nice.”

“I'm sure I'll be more rude to the social worker than the child, John,” And Sherlock was right.

The social worker was a large woman with obviously dyed red hair. She wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that were obviously fake, seeing as she messed with them constantly and the smudge marks were different than they would be on actual lenses instead of plastic. She chewed her gum in an alarming fashion, smacking and making loud noises that made Sherlock and John cringe away from her.

“I'm Dana. Carlisle's in the back room,” She told them in her hideously scratchy voice, “Now, she's shy around men so I'm not sure how she'll react towards you two.”

“Why is she shy around men?” John asked, his hands behind his back in his usual fashion.

“Her father was a drug dealer as well as an addict. We're guessing he probably did something to her. She won't talk about it to anyone. She's very smart, an excellent artist. She's never cried that I've heard. She's quiet. I think that she retreats into herself, likes to be alone with her thoughts. She's never said anything stupid, Mr. Holmes, I've read from the papers that you don't necessarily like dumb people. I don't like 'em much either,” she winked at Sherlock as he and John signed papers. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste at the woman and John could tell he was trying to hold back an insult.

“I'm sure she's very smart,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

The woman gave him a small smile, “If you have any questions feel free to ask.”

“How does she get along with other people, besides men? Other children?” John asked as he shot Sherlock a warning look.

“The other kids like to give her a hard time. She's skipped a lot of grades, goes to the local high school. She's a first year at Churchill Local.”

“I thought you said she was five years old?” John's eyebrows creased.

“She is. Like I said, _very_ smart. This girl is smarter than half the adults I know, she doesn't even show off, either. In fact, she's a bit bashful about it.”

“Wish everyone was like that,” John scoffed just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Sherlock lightly elbowed his husband, giving him a small smile.

Once they signed all of the papers, Dana took them to a room in the far back part of the agency. Through a glass window, John and Sherlock could see about twenty kids running around the light blue room. The walls were decorated with drawings and finger paintings from kids in the past. The entire room was filled with screaming children, each playing with one another, except for the left corner. A tiny girl sat with her hands around her knees, her dark curly hair trailing down to her waist. Her eyes were huge, sunken in and tired, as though she hadn't seen the light of day in quite some time. Sherlock knew in an instant that she was Carlisle. She was reading a book that she had strategically balanced on her ankles, turning the page every fifteen seconds. Even though she was wearing a pink shirt and jeans, Sherlock could tell that she would much rather be wearing something darker. She looked uncomfortable in the room of children, like she'd much rather be somewhere else.

Dana unlocked the door and stepped inside the room. She tapped Carlisle on the shoulder. The girl visibly flinched, then looked up at the ugly woman. Carlisle sighed, then put down her book and followed Dana out of the room. Sherlock noticed that she'd been reading _The Scarlet Letter._ He was impressed. Most teenagers could barely read something of that level.

The girl stared at her feet as Dana led her to Sherlock and John. She was careful not to make eye contact and let her dark locks cover her face. John knelt down and extended his hand toward her.

“Hi. I'm John Watson-Holmes. This is my husband, Sherlock,” Carlisle looked up at him, her brown eyes nervous and looking for a way out.

“Hi,” she said, barely above a whisper. Even Sherlock almost didn't hear her.

“What's your name?” John asked, his hand still extended.

“Carlisle Daniels.”

“How old are you, Carlisle?” John gave her a reassuring smile.

“Five,” she eyed his hand, then finally took it, her eyes memorizing every line and scar. Sherlock could see her analyzing everything about John as he knelt in front of her. Sherlock knew that she saw everything he'd seen the first time he'd met John.

“Wow. Soon you'll be as old as we are,” she graced him with a small smile.

“How old are you?” She asked quietly, brushing her thick curly hair behind her ears, revealing her dark pools of brown. “Thirty seven?”

John raised his eyebrows, “Thirty eight, actually. My husband is thirty six,” he motioned toward Sherlock, who stood stiff and tall behind John.

Carlisle stared up at Sherlock, she barely reached his knee caps. Sighing, Sherlock knew it was his turn to make the girl warm up to them. Sherlock knelt down beside his partner, resting one hand on John's knee, the other he held out to Carlisle. She narrowed her eyes at his calloused hand, studying it, then she took it.

“You play the violin,” she stated, then she watched his face for his reaction. John's eyebrows raised again, as did Sherlock's.

“Quite often,” Sherlock gave her a warm smile, he was beginning to like this girl.

Carlisle retreated as he smiled at her, looking at the ground once more.

John looked at her with a sad smile, “Carlisle, would you like to come live with us?”

Sherlock saw Carlisle flinch, but she didn't answer. Her hands were shaking and her eyes were looking for any possible escape. The girl was terrified.

“We're really not that bad. Sometimes we're annoying and pompous, but at the end of the day John makes a smashing cup of tea,” Sherlock chimed in. The girl looked up at him, searching his eyes for any suspicious gleams.

“I like tea.”


	2. Papa

The first few months that Carlisle spent with them were cautious and odd. They all three spent most of the time getting to know one another. Carlisle had warmed up to them somewhat, but she was still wary of them, not wanting any of them to touch her or come too close.

She had night terrors. Quite often. The only way Carlisle would go back to sleep was when Sherlock calmed her. She never exactly woke up from her nightmares, and when John went in to calm her, she'd cry and cry until Sherlock held her. Once she heard Sherlock's deep voice she'd immediately relax and fall back asleep. John knew Sherlock loved it, loved that someone needed him. John loved it, too, for he knew Sherlock was becoming attached to the wild-haired child.

They'd think she was becoming accustomed to their way of life, then once Sherlock became excited about something, or angry and yelled or accidentally broke something, she'd put down whatever she was doing and run to her room. Closing the door, she'd then hide under the covers until Sherlock came in and apologized for scaring her. Then she'd be wary of them for a few days.

“I think they used to beat her, John,” Sherlock said as they lay in bed one night. Sherlock's arm was underneath John's neck, both of them wide awake as they heard Carlisle tossing and turning in the next room.

“What?” John asked, turning to his side to face his partner. The look of worry on Sherlock's face was enough to make John forget about sleep entirely.  
“While she's having nightmares, she's begging for someone to stop. That's all she says, 'Stop, please stop. I'll do better next time. I'm sorry.' Always something of that nature. She's extremely wary of men, John. What if her father didn't just beat her? What if he did... something else?” John felt Sherlock's hands clench the sheets, his jaw taut and tightly set.

“How would you be able to tell that?” he asked, taking Sherlock's hand in his, trying to comfort him.

Sherlock sighed deeply, “The way she looks at the ground. Submissive. She runs to her room whenever there's a loud bang or someone yells, like she thinks they'll come for her or something. She hides under the covers like she actually believes they'll protect her. When I go in to calm her, she starts shaking and hyperventilating. Same with her night terrors. As soon as I sit on the bed she cringes away from me, like I'm going to harm her. Once she sees it's me, she sighs like she's completely exhausted and she lets me hold her, but I can tell that she's still wary of me; wary of us.

“All the art she draws is dark, sad. Like it's the only thing she can think of. She's quiet and she retreats into herself. That girl's been through something horrible. Whether it was physical or sexual abuse, it was still horrible. I could bet you a million quid that she's got scars everywhere, that's why she likes to wear those long sleeves and long pants.” Sherlock shook his head, “I want to find the bastard and make him feel as much pain as she does.”

“All we can do for her is be there for her. Help her when she needs it, love her as much as we can, Sherlock. We can't undo what was done to her, it's beyond our control and you know that. We've just got to be the parents she never had, the ones she deserves,” John kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips, “Sometimes, the best revenge is making a good person out of a bad situation.”

By then, Carlisle had begun to scream. With angry tears in his eyes, Sherlock pulled himself out of bed and went into Carlisle's room. She was throwing herself around her bed, crying and pleading to an unknown person.

“Shhh. It's alright, darling,” Sherlock pulled the sobbing child toward him. She pulled away from him at first, then opened her eyes and saw him.

“Papa...” Carlisle clutched her small hands around his waist, her tiny birdlike chest heaving, “I don't want to have nightmares anymore. I just want to sleep,” her large eyes were bruised from exhaustion.

“I know. I know,” Sherlock cooed as he rocked her. She shook and shuddered in his arms. Sherlock leaned back on the pillows, willing the little girl to fall asleep again. He felt utterly helpless, this time he didn't have all of the answers. He couldn't just make the nightmares go away. Sherlock couldn't rid her of her memories. He almost felt like praying, that seemed like the normal thing to do.

“One day these won't bother you anymore. You won't even think about them after awhile. All you'll remember is living with John and I,” then Sherlock stopped in his tracks. She'd called him Papa. He smiled to himself, despite his best efforts. Papa. He liked the sound of it.

“I just... wanna sleep,” Carlisle slurred as she passed out on his chest. Sherlock could tell he'd wake up the next morning with drool on his night shirt, and he didn't care. He was Papa, and Papa rather liked waking with saliva on his shirt, no matter how disgusting it was.


	3. Adoption

Carlisle rarely had nightmares after that, and when she did she'd crawl into John and Sherlock's bed to feel safe. She adjusted, and after two years Sherlock sat John down one day while Carlisle was at school.

“Is something bothering you, Sherlock?” John asked as Sherlock handed him a cup of tea.

“No. I'm fine, why?” Sherlock sat down in his chair and picked up his violin.

“It's just... the past few days you've been distant. Are you sure that you're feeling okay?”

“There's something I've wanted to speak to you about,” he calmly stated as he began cleaning his violin. John could tell that Sherlock was anything but calm. He was nervous.

Amused, John leaned back in his chair, “Okay. Shoot.”

“We've had Carlisle living with us for two years now.”

“Yeah. I know. I've been here,” John said, sipping his tea.

“She's essentially part of our 'family',” Sherlock used his fingers as quotations.

“Essentially, yes.”

“What if she was... permanently part of our family? She's quite clever, useful, calls us Daddy and Papa,” Sherlock pursed his lips and began cleaning his violin once more.

John grinned wickedly at Sherlock, “That would be lovely, Sherlock. I'm sure she'd quite like that.”

“Would you?” Sherlock tentatively asked, he wasn't good at being sentimental. That was more John's expertise.

“I would love it, darling,” he stood up and kissed Sherlock deeply, happy that his husband loved Carlisle enough to make her a part of their family.

Sherlock cupped his face lightly, a smile playing on his lips, “We've only an hour before we have to pick Carlisle up from school,” he whispered into John's ear as he led him to the bedroom.


	4. Goodbye, John.

The thunder rolled and the lightning crashed outside of Baker Street as Sherlock Holmes fiddled with his violin. He was lost in his mind palace, happily reviewing all of the information he had stored inside is cranium.

Suddenly, his right shoulder dropped, the violin violently ripped from his hands. Sherlock snapped from his reverie to find his daughter, Carlisle, glaring at him. Her long black curls hung to her waist, soaked with rain, her make up stained down her cheeks and an appallingly vicious look in her eyes.

“What happened to you?” he asked, hoping the eighteen year old had not been mugged on her way home in the rainstorm.

Carlisle scoffed, “What happened to you?” she mocked, her voice three octaves higher than normal, “What the bloody hell do you think happened to me? My wonderful Papa conveniently forgot to pick me up from school, then decided to neglect answering his phone!” she threw his violin onto the couch, her hands moving all around to express her anger.

“I was not supposed to pick you up, that's Tuesday. Today was John's day,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows in the smarter-than-you fashion he was so well known for.

Carlisle began laughing, her nostrils flaring menacingly, then her hands thrust toward the ceiling as she yelled, “IT IS BLOODY TUESDAY YOU DUMB COCK,” she sighed angrily, then stomped off toward her room.

Silently, Sherlock batted himself over the head. He cautiously walked to Carlisle's door and raised his hand to knock, but before he could she ripped it open.

“This is the last time you forget about me. You're my father, one of the only people I trust and believe in more than anything. Yet, you still manage to forget me. If you were going to leave me stranded in the pouring rain after the tube has stopped, you shouldn't have adopted me. I'm sure my biological father could have done that just as well.” She'd obviously been crying angrily on her walk home, and she was pissed, to say the least. Sherlock still found it difficult to deal with his daughter when she got angry, especially if it was his fault.

Sherlock had discovered that she had his explosive anger. Sherlock rarely expressed anger, but when he did it was because of pure frustration, so did his daughter.

“Carly, I'm sorry. I was-”

“In my mind palace, working on a case. Yes, I know.” Carlisle glared at him from her five foot stand point, hardly reaching his broad chest. Even though she was short, her anger and forward personality made Sherlock want to cower.

“It's just that your dad wasn't here to help me so I had to go in this time. I'm so sorry, dear.” he put a hand on her sopping hair, feeling even more guilty that he'd left her, “Did anyone bother you?”

“No, and if they had I could have handled it,” she pushed past him and into the bathroom, “I'm gonna have a shower, then I'm going to bed. Don't play too loud and don't stay up too late.”

Cursing himself, Sherlock sat on the couch and listened to Carlisle's music blast from the shower. She listened to loud angry music, something about piercing a veil or sirens. He never knew, but sometimes the sounds were interesting. Sherlock had recently added Can You Feel My Heart by Bring Me The Horizon to his phone, finding the background music of it very appealing, despite the screaming.

He'd forgotten to pick Carlisle up from class more than the allowed amount. She'd been lenient and had not yelled at him before now, but the rain and long walk must have finally set her off. Hoping to forget the look of disappointment on her face, Sherlock picked up his violin and played.

Finally, Carlisle walked out of the shower, her pajamas hanging loosely on her small frame.

“Look,” she said sitting down across from him in the plushy chair. She'd claimed it her first few weeks living with him and John, “I know things have been hard since Dad died. I know you still feel like he's here, but he's not. He's not going to clean up after you anymore and I'm certainly not going to do it. Help me help you, Papa. Dad's not coming back. Come to therapy with me.”

Sherlock tightened his jaw and looked away. Though Carlisle didn't know, Sherlock saw John on a daily basis. He was in Sherlock's head, everywhere he went. If Sherlock accepted that John was gone, he'd break.

“I'm sorry that I forgot you. I'll do better next time.”

Carlisle took his hand in hers, “Papa, that's not my point. I'm sorry I got angry before. You said Dad wasn't there to help you today. He died three months ago, Papa. You've grieved, we've all grieved. Now, we have to pick up the pieces and soldier on,” when he scoffed she forced Sherlock to look at her, “I miss him too dammit! He was my world too, not just yours. Don't you think that it's difficult for me to go to school, work, and come back here and not break down every single day?

“I miss him. He took me in when no one else would and he made me tea in that kitchen right there when I got scared watching Doctor Who. He dressed me like Molly because he knew she was my role model. Daddy knew me inside and out, and now that he's gone I feel empty. I feel so broken and bruised that some days I don't think that I can make it. But I'm not going to say that I'm allowed to feel this way and you aren't, because you are. You feel the same way. I can see it in your eyes. He's gone, yes, but I'm still here. Aren't I good enough, Papa? Can't I help you?” Carlisle's jaw shook, her damp curls beginning to poof around her face.

Sherlock stared at his knees, blatantly avoiding her gaze. After ten minutes of watching Sherlock's expression, Carlisle stood and went to her room.

John Watson-Holmes had suffered a slow death, the tumors in his lungs growing and taking him more and more every day. They'd prepared for his death, waited for it, and when it came and went they were still the cold calculating people they'd always been. John was gone, the only light in the hearts of the daughter and father duo. Carlisle was never home, she'd come home from class and leave soon after. Meanwhile, Sherlock was home all the time. He never left, hardly changed out of his dressing gown.

Sherlock had contemplated suicide for a long time. Every day, actually. Carlisle usually walked into the room before he made up his mind, stopping him from joining his partner. Sherlock had hardly noticed that Carlisle had lost weight, that she wore jumpers even though it wasn't winter, even that she had a bottle of pills on her night stand. Of course, he had noticed, but with all that was going on, it settled in the back of his mind.

Eventually, Sherlock walked to his room, pausing by Carlisle's. Sherlock could hear her crying, not even trying to hold back her sobs. He wanted to go in, but he wanted to give her her privacy. Every things was simpler when she was a child. He didn't have to ask to enter her room, or worry that he'd say the wrong thing.

Deciding that it was best to leave her alone, Sherlock instead shut his door behind him and sank into his cotton sheets. Breathing in John's scent, Sherlock eventually drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Lights were shining all around him, blinding him. The blood pumped in his ears so loud that Sherlock's brain felt like it would explode. His breathing was ragged, and he was sweating profusely.

Sherlock sat up from bed and ran to Carlisle's room. He threw the door open, his heart breaking at what he saw.

Carlisle lay in bed, looking almost peaceful if it were not for the blood pooling from her wrists, contrasting with her white sheets. Her hair fanned around her head, and her eyes fluttered. Sherlock threw himself onto the bed, trying to stop the blood, becoming panicked.

“Carly, I'm here. Papa's here, darling.” Sherlock frantically looked around the room for a scarf, finding one he began wrapping Carlisle's wrists as tight as he could.

“I... hate you... your fault,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering once more, then shutting. Her body went limp and Sherlock was left to stare at his daughter.

Sherlock woke with a start. He scrambled to sit up in the bed, fighting his way through sweat-soaked sheets. He rushed to Carlisle's room while putting on his dressing gown. He opened to door, his breath shaky, his thoughts rushed.

“Papa? What are you doing?” Carlisle whispered tiredly as light flooded her bedroom.

“Nothing, darling. Are you alright?” Sherlock cautiously walked into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Yes, I'm fine. Oh my lord, Papa.” she sat up as she saw the perspiration on his cheeks and in his hair, “Did you have a night terror?”

“I'm fine, really.” he rubbed his hands together anxiously, “How have you been?”

Carlisle sighed, “Papa, it's 3 a.m. You need to sleep. You're beginning to grey.” she reached up and touched his salt and pepper hair.

“You don't hate me, do you?” Sherlock's breathing was heavy, his eyes watering.

“No. I love you more than anyone. You're everything to me, Papa. You're all I have.” Carlisle reached forward to wrap her hands around Sherlock, her head resting on his chest, “I'm fine. We'll be fine, sooner or later. It's just hard right now. But it will get better, it has to. Daddy said it always gets better if you let it,” Carlisle pulled back and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, “Goodnight, Papa.”

She turned away from the light and pulled the covers over her head. Feeling a little better, Sherlock turned and went back to his room, sleeping less fitfully and feeling less broken than before.


End file.
